Cocoa
by Sparkly-elf
Summary: Weaknesses are often seen as objects of desire, where as they are a feature of someone's character regarded as unfavourable.


**Author's note:** One-shot I've wanted to write for some time. No real use in the plot, not names or anything, except Altair's. Purely for the sake of fiction.

**Warnings:** Rated M for a reason. Sexual Content.

**_Cocoa_**

It is… disgusting, the longing in it. But he cannot bring himself to deny.

That skin, dark, like powdered cocoa, the finest cinnamon India had to offer them, sweet as it paints her skin, an aphrodisiac all on it's own.

He hates it. He hates _her_, for all the longing, the ever so subtle impertinent giggles when he turns his back, refusing. They send shivers up his spine. She _almost_ sounds like a child.

Ripe, like fruit. But aged far, far beyond her years in experience down to a fine, sinful art.

And he _hates_ it.

Those hands, such long fingers she has, with painted nails and a painted smile, lips as cherries would be steeped in a fine wine distilled to a deep ruby vintage. Supple, under his thumb, and the widened smile only adds to her knowledge of him. She has him now, she _always _had.

They reminded him of spiders, those hands, sure enough they trapped him in such _tight_ webs, softer than silk, fingers long enough to reach all the way around. Perhaps it was just her nails, leaving marks down his torso, spider bites and knife wounds, luxury and satin and _oh_ how much he hated this.

__

"You can't leave,"

she would whisper, tantalising, _"you want this."_

And he has become aware of her being absolutely correct, though he finds it insufferable to bear the sheer weight of the wrongness, he bites on those lips just to see if they would bleed real blood, and not poison.

Disgust, within himself, and yet he can't pull back, can't leave, just like she hissed before stripping him of his clothes, and his control.

The floor is rough and hard against his back, he must have missed the rug completely, but what did it matter when-

__

Ah…

…When she moved just like that.

Dusted cinnamon over cream, cocoa skin smelling of wildflowers and hands that tore nails into his sides, such _pain_ she inflicted, strawberry blood for this sinful dessert with those cherry lips the only thing he couldn't take his eyes away from. Bewitching, and vaguely, though he could barely muster a coherent thought, he wonders if she has cast a spell on him.

Her control is unreal, and he looses it more often than not around her. Aching arches between rough snaps, and the world spins and dies in a fiery supernova. A chemical detonation, the catalyst those pewter orbs blazing above him.

Altair's fingers dig into her hips, enough to bruise-

__

But sometimes he thinks she enjoys the pain…

And he is spent, pathetic beneath her, barrelling chest rising to return the much needed air, yet she is barely breathless. A giggle, then. The worst sort of taunt. The shiver is cold as it travels the length of his spine, and sudden revelation, he is back in her room. And he _hates_ it.

Time and time again, he would throw her off, fling her away from him, as if she knew his terrible shame, his incredulous self-disgust with having her, again, and again.

And again…

She was the worst kind of drug. Euphoria mixed into a cherry flavoured, cocoa package that smelled of sexual desire and oh how he hated every inch of her.

__

"The why do you keep coming back?"

She would wonder, in just _that_ sort of tone, sultry, naked every time, he wondered if she ever dressed.

She knew why he never left. He ached for the luxury, the velvety silk of her skin, warm, hospitable and giving in to his every need, encouraging every barely bitten-off whimper and gasp that rumbled out from him. The reduction of his terrifying presence, to this…

This pathetic, foolish dog lapping at her feet, begging for more of that fruit which tasted so damn good.

__

"You love this,"

She hisses, just as he reaches the pinnacle, every time. Perhaps that _is_ a spell, he makes a mental note to cover her mouth next time.

Failing only, needing to hear _her_ want it. It cannot only be him in this game, surely not.

He has tried to kill her, he does not deny it. Tries desperately to hurt her, frighten her even, but as he plunges his blade, stopping it right between those pewter eyes, so very _cold_… she doesn't fear. What scares him the most is that her pupils do not even dilate.

She would smile, broadening those cherry lips, _"Go on, kill me._" But he cannot. He can hurt her for the sake of pleasure, but if he killed her…

He cannot. She _knows_ he would not.

Advantages over him, he supposed, and he finds himself stripped again, furious with her, spares no gentleness, husky and rough, but then she would have it no other way.

__

"More,"

she would moan for him, between pants, _"more!"_

And he _complied_, hating himself afterwards.

Pathetic, he reminded himself, utterly useless. For all the torture she inflicted on him, mind, spirit and body, he could never once reverse the game. Effortless, for her, his tries were in vain, she has played the game too many times to be fooled.

And yet he finds himself time and time again here, in her room, on these satin sheets, fingers and hitching breaths, cherry lips hovering over his, teasing. Cocoa skin dusted in husky cinnamon smelling of wildflowers and hands scraping into his stomach and chest, spider claws leaving her own brands on his flesh.

He wonders if this woman truly is his weakness, before he spends himself again.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thanks for reading! Yes, I will get back to SITD (aha), I'm halfway through the second chapter, well technically chapter 12, and I'll post it when it's done.


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